


i've got my love to keep me warm

by janvandyne



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 03:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13138443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janvandyne/pseuds/janvandyne
Summary: Outside the window, in the city square, the bulbs on the Christmas tree are still twinkling, rainbow lights reflecting off and refracting through the glass. A growing sheet of white snow is covering the ground and everything beyond the diner is ice-covered and frozen. But inside, it’s warm, and the air is thick with the smell of cinnamon and stew. James is here and your heart is pounding, stomach fluttering, and it feels good to feel this way, even if it’s not reciprocated.





	i've got my love to keep me warm

The snow is coming down hard now.

You watch through the window as it falls, covering everything outside with a thick sheet of pure white. It doesn’t obscure the twinkle from the Christmas tree outside in the square, though, and the rainbow lights cast their glow into the diner where you’re standing.

There’s a light from the kitchen in the back, illuminating the diner in a soft warmth, but other than that, the room is dim. You’ve turned off the rest of the lights already in the process of closing up. No one has been in for hours because of the weather, and you’re not expecting any to come now.

You’re thankful that you live just upstairs, above your diner, because facing the storm seems a daunting task, and your bed is calling your name. Maybe you’ll stay in bed all tomorrow. It’ll be Christmas, after all, and from the looks of it, everyone will be snowed in by morning.

You shake yourself from your reverie, ready to get in bed instead of just think about it. You go to lock the door and finish closing up, but then you see him coming.

He smiles when he sees you through the glass and you can’t help but smile back, opening the door to let him in along with the cold. You shiver as you’re hit with a gust of wind, but he’s mindful of the chill and quickly steps inside, moving out of the way so you can close the door behind him.

You lock the door after you close it, and turn the sign so it says  _closed_. You’re not worried about anyone else being turned away. Even if it wasn’t late on Christmas Eve, the snow is getting deep, too deep and dangerous and freezing for anyone to be outside. No one is crazy enough to fight off the impending storm, especially not just for diner food.

Well, no one but James.

You watch him as he slides his beanie off of his head, then stuff the hat into his jacket pocket. He takes off the jacket and hangs it on a hook next to the door. He unwraps his scarf from around his neck and hangs that up too. He’s wearing an unbuttoned plaid shirt, and a red Henley underneath that, black leather gloves, jeans, and heavy boots, and even with all the layers, it’s still not enough for the North Dakota cold.

His cheeks and lips are wind-whipped red, and the lingering snow on him is melting, making the ends of his hair curl and stick to his jaw. He tucks those strands behind his ears, pushes the rest of his hair back and away from his face. Just in time too, because your fingers were itching to do it for him.

“Are you closing up?” he asks, looking up at the lights as though he just realized they were turned off.

His face falls a little and you can’t stand it.

“I’m always open for you,” you tell him. “And I made gingersnap beef stew. A  _lot_ of it.”

“ _Mmm_ ,” he says, rubbing the palms of his gloved hands together, “my favorite.”

“I was hoping you’d stop by,” you admit. “Well, before the storm hit, that is.”

He smiles, and you can feel heat bloom in your cheeks as you watch him. To most people he’s distant and aloof, not even making eye contact as he makes his way to the back booth of your diner every night for dinner. But he has opened up to you in the months since he moved in to town, his patronage slowly blossoming into a surprising friendship. And maybe, at least you hope, that someday that will turn into something more.

“Do you need help with anything?” James asks.

“No,” you tell him,” go sit down. I’ll be right out.”

James makes his way to his usual seat, a booth in the very back of the diner, back to the wall and facing the door. He settles in, pushes his hair back off his face again, and looks out of the window beside him.

You don’t know if it’s the holiday that’s making you feel sentimental, or whether it’s the intimate lighting, the cozy setting, and the realization that this is the first time that you and James have ever been alone together, but something pulls at your heart as you watch him. Something fond and inexplicably sad that makes you want to wrap him up in your arms, chase away the winter cold, and give him whatever bit of piece that he’s searching for.

You realize you’re staring and force yourself to tear your eyes away from him so you can go to the back and get his food. When you return, you have a bowl of stew on your tray, alongside a plate of cornbread and a mug of hot cinnamon apple cider. While you were in the back, you popped an apple pie you had chilling in the refrigerator into the oven, something he can take back home to keep him warm.

“I was about to close up early,” you say as you place his bowl on the table in front of him. “I’m glad I didn’t.”

“I don’t want to keep you if you have somewhere to be,” he replies, looking as genuine and sincere as always.

“I don’t have anywhere to be but here,” you tell him, sitting down in the seat opposite from him. “What about you? No lucky lady to enjoy Christmas Eve with?”

He smirks. “I’m here with  _you_ , ain’t I?” he says, a teasing twinkle in his eye.

“Well I do feel lucky,” you reply

The smile doesn’t leave his face as he slides his glove off of his right hand. He picks up his spoon and with no preamble, heaps a healthy scoop of the stew into his mouth, closes his eyes and moans.  

 _“Damn_  do you know the way to a man’s heart,” he says after he swallows, already going in for a second bite. And you can tell that he’s joking, but you wish, more than anything, that in that joke there’s a half-truth.

You two sit in a comfortable, peaceful silence as he eats, as you sip on your own hot apple cider. It seems remarkably normal for you to be here with him, like this. And you can’t think of a better way to be spending your Christmas Eve.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I uhh… I got you this,” James says after a while, pulling something out of his pocket. It’s wrapped in the newspaper comics, a bright red ribbon tied on top.

“What is it?” you ask.

“A gift,” is all he says, and he looks away, shy.

His reaction makes your heart melt more than any gift he could possibly give you, but you turn it over in your hands anyway, inspecting the careful folds of the paper. You look back up at James, but he’s not watching you, looking down at his bowl as he eats instead.

You pull on the end of the ribbon to loosen it, and with a cautious attention that you’ve never given a gift before, you remove the tape, unwrap the paper, and pull out a box. Inside the box is a collar for the cat that he brought you the other day, wrapped up in his jacket after he found it half-frozen in the snow. The tag on the collar says ‘Hermey,’ a name you gifted the cat with from a Christmas movie that James has never seen.

“I didn’t get you anything,” you tell him.

He gives you a little smirk. “I’ll take a slice of that apple pie I smell,” he says. “Then we’ll call it even.”

You smile back, and he takes the last bite of the stew in his bowl. You look down at the collar in your hand as he eats, a tender gift from this sweet man, and then look back up to his face, gentle and contented to just be here with you in your humble diner. And you can’t hold it back anymore, can’t not tell him how you’re feeling, what you’re thinking.

“Come home with me tonight,” you say, hopeful.

But you know there’s a problem when he stops chewing, doesn’t look up at you but keeps his eyes trained on his empty bowl.

“No,” is all he says.

“Oh,” you reply, unintentionally, back stiffening.

“Listen, kid,” he tells you, looking at you finally. “You don’t want this,”

“I  _do_ ,” you reply, trying to talk through the lump in your throat.

“I’m bad news,” he says. “Nothin’ but trouble.”

 _Oh, bless his heart,_ you think. You could laugh at that.

“You’re the softest person I’ve ever met,” you tell him.

“I’ve done bad things.”

You can see it in his eyes that he’s telling the truth, the way he hunches over to make himself look smaller, less intimidating. You don’t doubt that he’s done some bad things, but you’re more convinced that bad things have been done to him.

“James, are you trying to convince me or yourself?” you ask with a tilt of your head and a sad closed-lipped smile.

He doesn’t answer you, so you look away, toward the window next to the booth the two of you are sitting at. Outside the window, in the city square, the bulbs on the Christmas tree are still twinkling, rainbow lights reflecting off and refracting through the glass. A growing sheet of white snow is covering the ground and everything beyond the diner is ice-covered and frozen. But inside, it’s warm, and the air is thick with the smell of cinnamon and stew. James is here and your heart is pounding, stomach fluttering, and it feels good to feel this way, even if it’s not reciprocated.

When you turn back to him, your smile is warmer, showing him that there’s no hard feelings. You slide out of the booth, his empty bowl and mug in your hands, ready to go get him that pie, to wrap up the rest of the stew so he’ll have some lunch for tomorrow.

“There’s nothing you can say that would make me not want you,” you tell him, and then shrug. “Just so you know.”

James opens his mouth to say something, but closes it again before he does. He averts his eyes and looks down at the table, his bare hand coming up to rub at his scruff.

Your heart breaks at his softness, and you feel bad about whatever confusion or turmoil your confession forced him to experience. You weren’t lying when you said there were no hard feelings, but whether he believes you or not is another story.

You start to turn away, to go back to the kitchen to wrap up the rest of the food, but before you can James is out of the booth too. He grabs your forearm, not too rough but enough to pull you back toward him, your chest bumping into his and almost knocking the breath out of you.

James cups your cheeks in his palms, one warm flesh, the other cool leather. He tilts your head back and places his lips against yours. His mouth is hot and his red lips are winter-chapped. His stubble is coarse against your skin and the fingers of the hand you can feel are calloused and rough.

It’s so far from your fantasy. It’s like nothing you have imagined.

It’s better. It’s  _perfect_.

Your hands are still full, so you can’t do anything but hold them out to each side while James pulls you in close, one of his arms wrapping around your waist. He parts his lips just enough to bring your bottom one between his, nipping at it with gentle teeth.

You moan into his mouth and immediately he pulls away, but before you can protest, his takes the dishes from your hands, turns and puts them on the countertop. He turns back to you and grabs your hips, lifts you, and sits you on the table.

He slips in to the place between your thighs, and for the first time, you touch him, hands running across the hard plains of his stomach. You grip his shirt and pull him closer, forcing him to bend down and kiss you again. He complies, easily, his own hands coming to rest on either side of your neck, his thumbs softly stroking your jaw.

Your fingers fumble with his belt buckle in their haste, clumsily undoing the hook from its hole. James follows your lead, and manages to get the top two buttons of your shirt unfastened before he just pulls, sending the rest of the buttons flying.

You pull away from him, surprised, and you watch him as he stares down at you, eyes on your breasts as your chest heaves. A moment later, he looks back up at you, horror-stricken.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”

Before he can recoil, you reach out to him, holding his face in your hands.

“It’s ok,” you tell him. “It’s just a shirt. I don’t even really like this shirt.”

You smile at him, trying to ease the tension, but you can tell that he’s unconvinced. He’s shutting down, closing himself off to you, but you can’t have that, refusing to accept that this is the way it ends. So, you try again, one last time.

“James,” you say, thumb softly running across his bottom lip, “you are the most incredible man I’ve ever met. I  _want_  you. I want you more than anything I’ve ever wanted before in this life.  _Please_ , come home with me tonight.”

He does.

* * *

 


End file.
